Serena Rodriguez
This I Know is True
I like to pretend I’m asleep when the nurses come at 2am daydreams slipping into the dark
I hold my bruised belly swollen beyond 24 weeks a nimbus cloud of Heparin
puncture wounds it will be many months after their birth before I see
skin again nurses take blood from my neck this depleted body sinking in on itself
I think about all the mothers who have lay on this bed before
………………………………..I’ve read hospital psychosis is real
………………………………………………………………………what are we to do but pretend we never wanted
pictures with sheer lace draping our perfectly round bellies how we pretend we never
imagined the suckling of our newborn how the doctor would whisk baby from umbilical
cord to breast how we pretend sounds of machines don’t creep into our dreams
begging us awake how they still years later don’t trigger a slow chill
creeping into our bones on early January mornings when daydreams don’t fill the night
I read let me escape this hard bed these strangling cords wrapping themselves holding me
fast to this place while my baby searches for a door into this world but nothing can distract
any mother begging to be . whole begging for healthy and perfect
…………..Mother may we be able to look at our bodies the way we did
………………………before the broken
……………………………………………slipped in
……………………………………………………….quietly whispered No
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Serena Rodriguez’s work has been published in Poetry, Inverted Syntax, Santa Fe Literary Review, and MindWell Poetry; she was the winner of the Santa Fe Accolades Poetry Contest 2017 and The Roadrunner Review Poetry Prize 2022 and was a 2020 Loraine Williams Poetry Prize finalist for The Georgia Review. She graduated from the Institute of American Indian Arts with her MFA in Creative Writing in May 2022. Serena works as a Creative Writing Visiting Professor at IAIA. Born in Mississippi, she lives in New Mexico with her partner and kiddo, where they hike the Bosque and eat all the tacos.